


catullus two

by Hinterlands



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Pining, cass is a big fucking nerd, i actually got paid to write this and life is incredible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5390951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is not without precedent," Cassandra says, woodenly, and leans in to kiss her firmly, and fully, upon the mouth.</p><p>(In which Cassandra pines, Skyhold revels, and Josephine is caught off guard.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	catullus two

The end of the world is a bacchanalia.

At least, Cassandra can find no better word to describe it; warm bodies filling the hall with their misty breath, milling and mingling, the masks adorning many a narrow face askew and gleaming in the light of a thin, wispy moon. The patches of night sky visible through the windows are tinged a faint green, and have been for days; some fading scar, already half-scabbed, an afterimage of calamity. Wine and ale flow in streams, bards pluck half-drunkenly at lutes, warbling slushy waltzes, and the breathless thrill of victory supersedes old borders, at least for this handful of heartbeats; Orlesians and Fereldans rub shoulders with only a modicum of grumbling, a tentative not-quite-camaraderie, and the night, for once, belongs to them.

(Belongs to _her,_ specifically; there was a point earlier in the evening that the supplicants came in droves to natter in her ears, offer congratulations to her on the Inquisition’s overwhelming victory in the stead of the Inquisitor--who, for a warrior, is _suspiciously_ proficient at disappearing from sight whenever Orlesians are involved—but they have slipped off for greener pastures and fuller cups, hastened by a slit-eyed glare and a gritting of the teeth, familiar soundless snarl.)

Smoke wafts from braziers in thick grey columns, mingling with the astringent odor of alcohol, the warmer, more welcoming scents of roast meats and warm pastries; the atmosphere in the hall is rather quickly trending towards _stifling_ , a grey haze of droning conversation and human heat, a pervasive itch beneath the collar, but Josephine—Josephine is watching, Josephine is watching _her,_ even if her attentions are guaranteed to be fleeting,and she could not bear even the slightest ripples of unseen disappointment across the ambassador’s face should she flee the hall now. A flickerfast smile across soft lips that Cassandra can only blink at, slowly and warily, before Josephine’s gaze slides off of her like water on oilcloth, bowed lips already forming the rote shape of a greeting in some duke’s direction.

The Seeker permits herself a single shiver before turning on her heel, endeavoring to push through the throng, to escape to— _where_ , exactly, she doesn’t know. Somewhere she can collect her thoughts.

(They could have been something _more;_ the thought still needles her. Duty has been her mantle for too long, and it weighs heavily on those broad shoulders. There was a hopeful flicker of something between them, something that yearned to be breathed to life, a single spark, but she has left the matter to linger and rot. The Inquisition’s duties have consumed them both wholly in recent months, in any case, and she would make a poor match for gentle Josephine, bright and verbose where the Seeker is stumble-tongued and quick-tempered. It would be a courtly affair, a rose-tinted daydream, but things would grow brittle between them soon enough.

 _You simply did not want to try,_ some small voice rattles in her skull, emboldened by the alcohol Bull _insisted_ on pressing upon her, _because you feared that you would fail her._

Cassandra finds that she does not have a response.)

Her feet have carried her from the hall to the gardens unbidden, she realizes after some minutes, a lush strand of creeping ivy tickling the curve of her ear in passing. It is hardly abandoned—some few pairs of drunken lovers are engaging in awkward trysts behind a screen of bushes, against one of the pillars in the gazebo; this is less than ideal, but they are courteously, intensely quiet beyond the odd gasp or giggle, drinking one another in. Cassandra braces a palm against the low stone railing and closes her eyes, pulling in a lungful of chill mountain air, another, until the maelstrom risen below her skin, prickling and pulling, demanding to be acknowledged, subsides.

A presence at her elbow, rustling silk, satin movements. Josephine does not move to touch her, but her voice is charged with concern; “I do hope the festivities have not worn on you overmuch, Cassandra.”

Another breath, and Cassandra shifts her hips, cracks her eyes to look at the other woman sidelong. Josephine has been in a frenzy organizing this gathering since their war-party came riding home, blinking the phantom image of the Breach from sleepless eyes, and as discomfiting as the endless guests with their noise and heat have been, it is the fruit of long and hard labor—Josephine’s especially. “…I have enjoyed myself. The company simply becomes trying, after a time.”

The smile that Josephine flashes her is as slender as the curl of moon hanging above them, and warm with sympathy. “Understandable. If you wish to be alone…”

A husky sound rasps at the back of the Seeker’s throat. “No.” The skin at the nape of her neck prickles, surcharged with static, the energy (imagined, surely, dead and gone to dust) crackling between them. “I would enjoy the company of a…of a friend.”

Josephine smiles again, private and pleased, and settles in to lean beside her, watching the breeze ripple across the lush grass of the lawn, the pinpoint stars winking solemnly just beyond the overhang they stand beneath. Cassandra’s right hand grips the railing tighter, almost imperceptibly. For a time, there are no words between them, only companionable silence tainted by Cassandra’s strange, catlike tension.

( _What is stopping you?_ The voice asks, almost petulantly, and this time, Cassandra can answer at once; _nothing. Nothing at all._ )

Cassandra turns to the other woman with a suddenness that seems to startle them both; Josephine straightens, just slightly, silk sleeves rustling. “Cassandra? Are you all right?”

_What is stopping you?_

"This is not without precedent," Cassandra says, woodenly, and leans in to kiss her firmly, and fully, upon the mouth.

Josephine stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and Cassandra is immediately sorry, even as she’s swept up in the softness of Josephine’s lips, the taste of honey and cloves still clinging to them. She makes as if to pull away, but gentle hands encircle her shoulders, pull her closer instead of pushing her off, and Josephine pulls her head back just enough that the Seeker can still feel the sweep of her honeyed breath across her lips. “I had suspected…”

Cassandra silences her with another kiss, less clumsy, now, brazen as in battle, the softening of Josephine’s posture all the invitation she needs to chase months of wasted opportunity. She is aware of Josephine’s leg raising, her heel turned up in the periphery of the Seeker’s vision, and Josephine takes advantage of the amusement in the curve of her lips to take control of the kiss, crumpling the fabric of Cassandra’s shirt beneath her fingers. It’s as fumbling a dalliance as any made by the couples slowly growing more horizontal across the lawn, but the honesty of it snatches the breath from Cassandra’s lungs. This close, the smell of her is heady, clean and floral with an edge of woodsmoke, a tang of spice and fire.

They’re both breathless and panting soon enough, lips swollen from kisses, Cassandra’s lower back pressed against the railing with Josephine still clutched loosely in her arms, against her chest. She is dizzy with the exhilaration of it, face afire, a feeling like falling endlessly, wind in her ears and hair and arms outstretched; Skyhold’s windows are lit with the mirth of a thousand exuberant souls before them, and, as Josephine shifts against her, eyes lidded and mouth curved in a languid smile, Cassandra cannot say that her face is not glowing the same.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission for the lovely and patient sweettasteofbitter; hope you enjoyed! <3


End file.
